There are several great things about living in Chinatown. It's walking distance to the Lower East Side, TriBeCa, and Soho. All the subway stations are close by, N R Q, 4 5 6, 1 2 3, C E, the J....nearly anything I want to get on to go anywhere is here. And the apartment is as cheap as you can get in Manhattan, otherwise known as the burrough that will bleed you dry for rent and then ask you if you could maybe try the other vein.
Some things aren't so great about living here, though.
On my way to work, or on my way home from work, or walking out the door to go to a street fair or go to a movie (ha! at $15 a ticket, who am I kidding, I never go to the movies. That's what Netflix is for), or to go to a bar (far more likely...) I inevitably encounter this scenario:
A Chinese man walking in front of me. This sounds like an OK situation, right? Let me elaborate.
These men invariably walk with both hands behind their backs, like they tell you to do in choir practice. Also, fine by me. Even a little endearing. Additionally, they typically roll their own cigarettes. Economical, right? I can appreciate that. They stick these hand-rolled cigarettes into their mouths and smoke them, while walking with their hands behind their backs. This, I find impressive. I can barely walk and talk on my cell phone at the same time. To walk and smoke hands-free? That's nothing short of Olympian. But, there's more.
They walk, hand-rolled cigarettes between their lips, not ashing, for blocks. The stench is pretty powerful. Which annoys me, but only slightly, because although the smell is awful I understand (and appreciate) that we live in America, where it isn't illegal to smoke in the great outdoors, and if you don't want to hold your cigarette and would rather walk with a stick of ash 2-inches long dangling precariously from your mouth, that's your prerogative.
No, no. That's not what gets me. What annoys me beyond all reason and to a point of near insanity is that, probably because these men have been smoking hand-rolled cigarettes for decades upon decades now (God bless them), they often feel the need to spit. And not just little, lady-like pit-uey's either. BIG HAWKING LOOGIES. Loudly. And longly. It can sometimes take half a minute to get all that phlegm deposited onto the sidewalk where it belongs.
My issue is that I often happen to be walking on said sidewalk, and, crazy me, I sometimes prefer my walking space loogie free.
In all fairness, this blog post is just a response to me completely, utterly snapping over this issue after having lived in Chinatown nearly a year and, tonight while sitting on my roof, my sacred, quiet (aside from the occasional siren and airplane overhead) place, my only outdoor escape in the city, hearing a man SPIT on the ground 6 stories below me. In the middle of my rooftop quiet time. How rude!
So really, I'm being unreasonable here. In all likelihood tomorrow I will realize this and will apologize for my outburst, but for now I will speak out with the fury that only comes from those who have had ENOUGH.
I don't ask for much. But I do ask for a community that's spit free. It's just disconcerting to have to gauge how quickly I should walk against what trajectory I think someone's spit-path will be... Guys, remember all of those out-of-date laws we used to laugh at for different states banning public spitting. Now I see they are quite practical. Spit in the privacy of your own homes, people. Like decent folk.
****
In other news, went to the Hester Street Fair last weekend with my new roommate and had an awesome time. There were lots of cool restaurant vendors and artists, including this one girl who made the most ridculously amazing terrariums. One of them incorporated a sea urchin. I want to buy one on a day I have money.
That's all for now.... trying to keep posting weekly but it is more difficult than it sounds.
Word to the wise: Avoid puddles on the sidewalks at all costs. Could very well be a loogie.
Showing posts with label Chinatown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chinatown. Show all posts
Monday, May 9, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Dim Sum--I'll have sum of dim, and sum of dim...
My Dad was in town this weekend and he and Taka took my new roommate and me out for Chinese brunch, otherwise known as the delectable meal "Dim Sum." We went to Jing Fong Restaurant, a place I'm fortunate enough to have two blocks from my apartment.
Although we arrived at 11 a.m., it was already packed. Brunch in New York is more of an after 12 p.m. thing, so it says a lot that it was crazy that early. When they called our number, we went up the escalator and entered a massive room full of large round tables. They sat us with strangers, as usual. With this place, you can't be too picky. You sit where you fit.
Dim Sum is fun because, much like when Japanese chefs cook your food in front of you, it's not just a meal, it's an experience. Chinese women wheel large carts around the room full of mysterious and delicious things. Dim Sum is primarily small plates of different kinds of dumplings (yum!), and there are other types of Chinese dishes as well.
Here's how the system works: You have a card. If one of these women walks by you with something that looks tasty, you gesture for it (because, inevitably, you do not speak the same language). She gives you the food and writes something down on your card and then you get to enjoy your plate. But wait--there's something else that looks good! Get that. Oh, and what's that? Yeah, that too, give us that.
And that.
It's sort of like tapas on steroids. And better, because you get to see what you're getting before you order it. Also, you can order Dim Sum all day, have a million items on your card, and when you go to check out find that your bill is under fifteen dollars. Easily.
It's just a lot of fun. I had a great time catching up with my Dad and Taka over tasty Dim Sum goodness, and loved that they got the chance to meet my new roommate. All in all, Sunday success story, I'd say.
Although we arrived at 11 a.m., it was already packed. Brunch in New York is more of an after 12 p.m. thing, so it says a lot that it was crazy that early. When they called our number, we went up the escalator and entered a massive room full of large round tables. They sat us with strangers, as usual. With this place, you can't be too picky. You sit where you fit.
Dim Sum is fun because, much like when Japanese chefs cook your food in front of you, it's not just a meal, it's an experience. Chinese women wheel large carts around the room full of mysterious and delicious things. Dim Sum is primarily small plates of different kinds of dumplings (yum!), and there are other types of Chinese dishes as well.
Here's how the system works: You have a card. If one of these women walks by you with something that looks tasty, you gesture for it (because, inevitably, you do not speak the same language). She gives you the food and writes something down on your card and then you get to enjoy your plate. But wait--there's something else that looks good! Get that. Oh, and what's that? Yeah, that too, give us that.
And that.
It's sort of like tapas on steroids. And better, because you get to see what you're getting before you order it. Also, you can order Dim Sum all day, have a million items on your card, and when you go to check out find that your bill is under fifteen dollars. Easily.
It's just a lot of fun. I had a great time catching up with my Dad and Taka over tasty Dim Sum goodness, and loved that they got the chance to meet my new roommate. All in all, Sunday success story, I'd say.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Today, I struck a small child...
It was an accident, but nonetheless, it happened. The most disturbing part about this is I didn't feel badly about it. At all.
Let me start from the beginning:
A few weeks ago I received a package at work. It was bright red and shiny and contained about seven YA (young adult genre) galleys--for those of you not in the publishing biz, a galley is a sort of preview of a book before it's been completely proofed and published. They're usually sent out for the book's promotion and have a lot more typos than the final product, but reading them is basically the same as reading the final book.
Now, because I work as an assistant in book production rather than, say, book promotion, and I work on accounting and business titles as opposed to teen books, it makes next to no sense that someone sent these books to me in hopes of promoting them pre-pub date. Unless, of course, this person was aware of my wildly popular blog (ha...ha) and the off-chance that I'd name-drop some books in a post. Well. That person is damn good at her job. Let the name-dropping commence!
At first, I snubbed my nose at these titles. YA novels indeed! I'm a twenty-two-year-old woman and well beyond the angst and melodrama faced by high school teens, thank-you-very-much.
And then one day, I'd finished my current subway read and needed something to take on the commute home. I dug deep in my office drawer where I'd buried these books, never to see the light of day, and picked out Bloodthirsty a novel by Flynn Meaney about a teen boy who fakes being a vampire to impress girls. It was hilarious.
Next was The Duff (Designated Ugly Fat Friend) by Kody Keplinger about a girl who doesn't realize she's beautiful until she finds out that every girl in her high school has considered herself the DUFF at some point and, logically, they couldn't all be the DUFF, so it goes to follow that nobody is, really. Just heartwarming!
After finishing that and admitting to myself that YA novels were now my crack and I was totally hooked, I picked Immortal Beloved by Cate Tiernan, the book that I was thinking about today, the day I struck a child.
The premise of this book is that immortals roam the earth alongside regular humans, only the immortals are totally jaded by their own immortality. These people are literally forever young, totally bored, and borderline sociopaths. They've felt so much over so many years, seen so many deaths, lost so many regular human friends, husbands, children, that they've taught themselves how to not feel anything, a sort of defense mechanism.
Well, the main character is out partying in London with other immortal friends one night when scary shit goes down, one regular mortal gets really hurt, and Nastasya decides she doesn't want to be so awful anymore and runs away to some sort of immortal rehab in podunk, Massachusetts. There she learns the importance of being in the moment, of appreciating the little things like the feel of the soapy water while washing dishes, and the joy of kneading one's own bread. She also meets a Viking god and proceeds to fall madly and hopelessly in love with him despite the fact that he irritates the hell out of her and apparently the feeling is mutual...but that's not what I was thinking of before I struck the child.
I was thinking of the first part. The importance of being in the moment and appreciating the little things. That morning, I'd gotten up at a reasonable hour, eleven a.m. I made my own coffee and cooked breakfast, eggs, bacon, and toast. I'd savored this breakfast slowly and tried to enjoy every bite of bacon, every sip of coffee.
Afterward, I'd showered, put on a pair of cheap sunglasses, and headed out to Bryant Park.
On Canal street outside of my apartment the tourists were everywhere. I couldn't move without my skin coming into contact with someone else's skin. I tried to focus on the fact that this was the nicest weather we'd had in a while, and even if that man's hairy arm had just grazed mine, the day was lovely.
I arrived at the subway platform literally two seconds too late to catch the first train, mostly because this asshole in front of me wouldn't hurry the hell... I mean, as I waited to catch my train, even though the subway station was unbearably hot and I could feel my recently applied makeup melting down my neck and onto my new white tank-top, I was very grateful for the fact that I was in New York at that moment, taking the subway, and that I got to do it everyday, because after all isn't that why so many tourists came here, for that experience? It was a privilege, really.
When I finally got to Bryant Park, I sat down at a table in the shade and it was lovely. Granted, within ten minutes the park maintenance people decided that right in front of my table would be the perfect place to start depositing bags of trash and I had to move to another section of the park and it took me another five minutes of walking around to find an open seat...but once I found that, I could focus and can honestly say I started really enjoying the little things this Saturday. Until I had to pee.
I would bet big money that Bryant Park has the nicest restroom facilities out of all of New York's public bathroom options. I think they've even won a few awards for the niceness. I'm pretty sure that the closest the other public restrooms have come to winning awards is just not being condemned and shut down...and several subway restrooms can't even say that.
So, I wasn't too irritated about being in the park and having to pee, except for the fact that I knew there would be a long line. There always is for those restrooms; their niceness has made them a sort of Mecca of restrooms. I'm convinced that some New Yorkers make pilgrimages to them from far away blocks simply because they have to go and they know the Byrant Park ones will a) be open and b) be bearable. I myself have been known to make such pilgrimages.
But when I got to the restroom, something was amiss. There was the usual line of women out the door and the just as usual (and always infuriating) lack of line in front of the men's restroom door, but there was a commotion. A woman was screaming in front of the restroom.
"Was that a rat?? That was a rat!"
"No, no," a man replied reassuringly, "that was a mouse. Smaller."
Goddammit.
At that point all I could think was eff the little things! Taking joy in the more simple pleasures in life was impossible when the universe is obviously out to ruin this Saturday! To spite me! Because the universe was out to get me! Well, universe, it's on.
I stood in the line, which, as a testament to the determindedness of New York women who need to pee, had not shortened in the slightest as a result of the rat/mouse sighting.
When it was finally my turn, I went to the restroom not even being a bit thankful for the no-touch flush, sink, and blowdryer, or the nearly-clean marble counter tops, or the floor which completely lacked paper towel debris, or the noticeable scent in the air of smells that were not urine and filth. Who cared? Even the nicest public restroom in all of New York City had rats. And for some reason that reality crushed a tiny corner of my soul.
And that's why, when the inconsiderate mother of five boys under the age of seven (how dare she procreate at such velocity?!) allowed them to stand dumbly clustered in the doorway, and I said "Excuse me, excuse me. I'm trying to get by here" and they didn't even acknowledge that I had spoken words, I shoved my way through.
In doing so, my purse, which was large but not heavy, struck one of the things in the head.
Just so you know, I did apologize to the kid!...but my heart wasn't in it.
My brain recognized that I probably should feel some sense of remorse. I understand that it is morally abhorrent to strike a child and not feel some tinge of regret at having done so...but the only sentiment I could muster was one of vindication. Well, I thought to myself, maybe next time he'll know to get out of the friggin' way!
And this is why I'm glad I'll never have to go to immortal rehab like Nastasya. I clearly couldn't hack it. New York has forever ruined me for achieving total zen andnirvana and perhaps even basic human decency...but at least when it comes to taking care of my business, I'll never let a silly thing like a rat-sighting get in the way.
Let me start from the beginning:
A few weeks ago I received a package at work. It was bright red and shiny and contained about seven YA (young adult genre) galleys--for those of you not in the publishing biz, a galley is a sort of preview of a book before it's been completely proofed and published. They're usually sent out for the book's promotion and have a lot more typos than the final product, but reading them is basically the same as reading the final book.
Now, because I work as an assistant in book production rather than, say, book promotion, and I work on accounting and business titles as opposed to teen books, it makes next to no sense that someone sent these books to me in hopes of promoting them pre-pub date. Unless, of course, this person was aware of my wildly popular blog (ha...ha) and the off-chance that I'd name-drop some books in a post. Well. That person is damn good at her job. Let the name-dropping commence!
At first, I snubbed my nose at these titles. YA novels indeed! I'm a twenty-two-year-old woman and well beyond the angst and melodrama faced by high school teens, thank-you-very-much.
And then one day, I'd finished my current subway read and needed something to take on the commute home. I dug deep in my office drawer where I'd buried these books, never to see the light of day, and picked out Bloodthirsty a novel by Flynn Meaney about a teen boy who fakes being a vampire to impress girls. It was hilarious.
Next was The Duff (Designated Ugly Fat Friend) by Kody Keplinger about a girl who doesn't realize she's beautiful until she finds out that every girl in her high school has considered herself the DUFF at some point and, logically, they couldn't all be the DUFF, so it goes to follow that nobody is, really. Just heartwarming!
After finishing that and admitting to myself that YA novels were now my crack and I was totally hooked, I picked Immortal Beloved by Cate Tiernan, the book that I was thinking about today, the day I struck a child.
The premise of this book is that immortals roam the earth alongside regular humans, only the immortals are totally jaded by their own immortality. These people are literally forever young, totally bored, and borderline sociopaths. They've felt so much over so many years, seen so many deaths, lost so many regular human friends, husbands, children, that they've taught themselves how to not feel anything, a sort of defense mechanism.
Well, the main character is out partying in London with other immortal friends one night when scary shit goes down, one regular mortal gets really hurt, and Nastasya decides she doesn't want to be so awful anymore and runs away to some sort of immortal rehab in podunk, Massachusetts. There she learns the importance of being in the moment, of appreciating the little things like the feel of the soapy water while washing dishes, and the joy of kneading one's own bread. She also meets a Viking god and proceeds to fall madly and hopelessly in love with him despite the fact that he irritates the hell out of her and apparently the feeling is mutual...but that's not what I was thinking of before I struck the child.
I was thinking of the first part. The importance of being in the moment and appreciating the little things. That morning, I'd gotten up at a reasonable hour, eleven a.m. I made my own coffee and cooked breakfast, eggs, bacon, and toast. I'd savored this breakfast slowly and tried to enjoy every bite of bacon, every sip of coffee.
Afterward, I'd showered, put on a pair of cheap sunglasses, and headed out to Bryant Park.
On Canal street outside of my apartment the tourists were everywhere. I couldn't move without my skin coming into contact with someone else's skin. I tried to focus on the fact that this was the nicest weather we'd had in a while, and even if that man's hairy arm had just grazed mine, the day was lovely.
I arrived at the subway platform literally two seconds too late to catch the first train, mostly because this asshole in front of me wouldn't hurry the hell... I mean, as I waited to catch my train, even though the subway station was unbearably hot and I could feel my recently applied makeup melting down my neck and onto my new white tank-top, I was very grateful for the fact that I was in New York at that moment, taking the subway, and that I got to do it everyday, because after all isn't that why so many tourists came here, for that experience? It was a privilege, really.
When I finally got to Bryant Park, I sat down at a table in the shade and it was lovely. Granted, within ten minutes the park maintenance people decided that right in front of my table would be the perfect place to start depositing bags of trash and I had to move to another section of the park and it took me another five minutes of walking around to find an open seat...but once I found that, I could focus and can honestly say I started really enjoying the little things this Saturday. Until I had to pee.
I would bet big money that Bryant Park has the nicest restroom facilities out of all of New York's public bathroom options. I think they've even won a few awards for the niceness. I'm pretty sure that the closest the other public restrooms have come to winning awards is just not being condemned and shut down...and several subway restrooms can't even say that.
So, I wasn't too irritated about being in the park and having to pee, except for the fact that I knew there would be a long line. There always is for those restrooms; their niceness has made them a sort of Mecca of restrooms. I'm convinced that some New Yorkers make pilgrimages to them from far away blocks simply because they have to go and they know the Byrant Park ones will a) be open and b) be bearable. I myself have been known to make such pilgrimages.
But when I got to the restroom, something was amiss. There was the usual line of women out the door and the just as usual (and always infuriating) lack of line in front of the men's restroom door, but there was a commotion. A woman was screaming in front of the restroom.
"Was that a rat?? That was a rat!"
"No, no," a man replied reassuringly, "that was a mouse. Smaller."
Goddammit.
At that point all I could think was eff the little things! Taking joy in the more simple pleasures in life was impossible when the universe is obviously out to ruin this Saturday! To spite me! Because the universe was out to get me! Well, universe, it's on.
I stood in the line, which, as a testament to the determindedness of New York women who need to pee, had not shortened in the slightest as a result of the rat/mouse sighting.
When it was finally my turn, I went to the restroom not even being a bit thankful for the no-touch flush, sink, and blowdryer, or the nearly-clean marble counter tops, or the floor which completely lacked paper towel debris, or the noticeable scent in the air of smells that were not urine and filth. Who cared? Even the nicest public restroom in all of New York City had rats. And for some reason that reality crushed a tiny corner of my soul.
And that's why, when the inconsiderate mother of five boys under the age of seven (how dare she procreate at such velocity?!) allowed them to stand dumbly clustered in the doorway, and I said "Excuse me, excuse me. I'm trying to get by here" and they didn't even acknowledge that I had spoken words, I shoved my way through.
In doing so, my purse, which was large but not heavy, struck one of the things in the head.
Just so you know, I did apologize to the kid!...but my heart wasn't in it.
My brain recognized that I probably should feel some sense of remorse. I understand that it is morally abhorrent to strike a child and not feel some tinge of regret at having done so...but the only sentiment I could muster was one of vindication. Well, I thought to myself, maybe next time he'll know to get out of the friggin' way!
And this is why I'm glad I'll never have to go to immortal rehab like Nastasya. I clearly couldn't hack it. New York has forever ruined me for achieving total zen and
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Down in Chinatown
It has been weeks since my last blog post and don't think I haven't been racked with guilt over my lack of postage...(can I use that word in this sense? I don't think so, but I kind of like it and I'm going to anyway...)
All I can say is, moving in New York City is a hell I wouldn't wish on my least favorite of people and I've been a bit busy surviving the most stressful and strenuous (both mentally and physically) weeks of my twenty-two years on this earth. So please have some patience.
But, things are different now. I feel like my world may have finally stopped spinning and I can foresee a future where weekly blog posts are again a part of my reality. And that future is bright.
And now, a little story:
One Thursday night about three weeks ago, Tyler, a good friend of mine from SMU mentioned in a previous blog post, flew in from Colorado, suitcase in hand, his pockets, of course, proverbially full-of-dreams.
He'd tentatively planned on moving here last semester and through some combination of unicorn dust and a show-stopping resume, he actually landed a job here prior to graduation, sealing his fate to be my new (and hopefully long-term) roommate!
So Thursday June 3 he shows up and we officially have the weekend to find our new digs, or else. His first day of work is Monday; my lease is up the fifteenth--time, to say the least, is of the essence, and we didn't waste a minute.
The next day Tyler scoured the entire borough of Manhattan while I emailed him craigslist postings from work. He saw ten different apartments, God bless him. Most listings were in the upper upper East and West sides, aka, lower Harlem.
Harlem's supposedly very up-and-coming these days though and Tyler was very impressed with some of the places, one in particular. He sent me a text describing a tree-lined street and "HUGE" livingroom windows. The place even had a washer/dryer, which, in any other city in the country would definitely not be a major selling point, but let me tell you, in Manhattan you're lucky if you have a common washer/dryer in your entire building. Wanting one in your own apartment is a dream.
Up until about 3 p.m. I was pretty sure we were getting this Harlem place, and actually very excited about it without even having seen it. I very much trusted Tyler's judgement though and if he loved it, I was sure I would, too.
That's when I got the call.
I was at work, but I answered my cell anyway. It's not everyday you're remote-apartment-hunting and I felt that if Tyler chose to call rather than text, it must be important. I was right.
"I found this great place!" he told me.
"Yeah? East or West?" up to this point those were the only places we'd been looking...
"Chinatown."
Pause.
"You're joking."
He wasn't. I promised him I'd take a look at the place even though I was sure I would hate it. (I kept that last part to myself...)
We went out that night in both neighborhoods to get a feel for how safe I'd be walking home late at night. Turns out a coworker of mine lives in Chinatown; we met him for drinks in the area and he told us about how his kid goes to daycare in Chinatown and now speaks English and Mandarin and a little Hebrew (apparently it's a Chinatown daycare owned and managed by Jewish people. Oh, New York....)
Walking around in Chinatown elevenish at night with Tyler, I felt completely fine. Okay, so maybe I had to pee badly and nothing was open so Tyler and I pretended like we were staying at the Best Western until it turned out there were no Joneses registered for that night (really? no Joneses??) and then we had to leave (but not before I got to use their restroom!) but, the area felt very safe and was surprisingly busy considering most stores there close fairly early and the only places open were a smattering of bars. I even had Tyler walk ahead of me ten paces so I could feel what it would be like to be all alone on the street...and it was really ok.
Then we took the 6 train to the upper-upper East....Harlem.
I do not care what the New York Times says about it; Harlem past midnight was no place to be. Tyler offered to walk his ten paces ahead of me to simulate this whole being alone thing. I told him he'd better not.
It felt less safe for a number of reasons: The streets seemed absolutely deserted except for your standard homeless nappers and beggars; there were no cops making standard patrols as in Chinatown, probably because Harlem isn't your biggest tourist hot spot and NYC throws its money where the money is; finally, about a street down from our would-be washer-dryer-equipped apartment, there was what can only be described as a block party going down, only this block party was unlike any you've ever seen. One a.m. on a Friday, it included a number of baby strollers manned (and wommanned) by young-looking parents using their free hands to hold glass beer bottles or lit cigarettes, or both. I wanted to stop and tell these people "Go home. Put your kids to bed. You are a mom/dad--Seriously...give me a break!"
And because after passing these people enough nights I was sure that at one point I would speak my mind and have to deal with the consequences of such actions, it was probably for the best that Tyler and I turned around at that point and decided we couldn't take the Harlem apartment.
I was also pretty convinced that despite my positive experience in Chinatown by night, we were still not getting that place, either. In fact, I was pretty sure we would be scrapping the whole crappy experience and starting from scratch the next day in search of more mythical laundryrooms, but then something surprising happened: I really liked the C-town place.
Ok, granted, it's small--only two bedrooms, no living room (same as in my old place, the converted one-bedroom to three-bedroom...This place was probably actually a studio at one point and they threw up some pressurized walls and called it a two-bedroom. Again, Oh, New York...)
But, it has hardwood floors and granite tiling and countertops in the kitchen. And there's rooftop access, which is awesome. Tyler and I are on the lookout for folding chairs; we already rescued a folding table propped beside a Chinatown garbage can and got it "foh fwee!" as we've started saying. Now we're looking for chairs and I'm envisioning many a rooftop wine-night in our futures.
And we each have our own window A/C unit in our rooms, which I know doesn't sound great by regular living standards but... you guys have to believe me, it's good. I know a couple who moved into an apartment in Manhattan with no A/C units and they're having to buy and install them themselves. Ridiculous.
Anyway, this post is getting long, but I just wanted to update and soon I'll probably post again to tell the epic tale of my Dad's trip to NYC and how I roped him into helping me move into this fifth-floor-walk-up using only our own brute human strength and the kindness of one brave Taxi driver.
And then another about my first trip to my new grocery store, the Hong Kong Supermarket, and my newfound love for garlic-flavored peanuts.
Post again soon. Please message or leave comments. Miss everyone from home and would love to hear from you!
<3 Leigh
All I can say is, moving in New York City is a hell I wouldn't wish on my least favorite of people and I've been a bit busy surviving the most stressful and strenuous (both mentally and physically) weeks of my twenty-two years on this earth. So please have some patience.
But, things are different now. I feel like my world may have finally stopped spinning and I can foresee a future where weekly blog posts are again a part of my reality. And that future is bright.
And now, a little story:
One Thursday night about three weeks ago, Tyler, a good friend of mine from SMU mentioned in a previous blog post, flew in from Colorado, suitcase in hand, his pockets, of course, proverbially full-of-dreams.
He'd tentatively planned on moving here last semester and through some combination of unicorn dust and a show-stopping resume, he actually landed a job here prior to graduation, sealing his fate to be my new (and hopefully long-term) roommate!
So Thursday June 3 he shows up and we officially have the weekend to find our new digs, or else. His first day of work is Monday; my lease is up the fifteenth--time, to say the least, is of the essence, and we didn't waste a minute.
The next day Tyler scoured the entire borough of Manhattan while I emailed him craigslist postings from work. He saw ten different apartments, God bless him. Most listings were in the upper upper East and West sides, aka, lower Harlem.
Harlem's supposedly very up-and-coming these days though and Tyler was very impressed with some of the places, one in particular. He sent me a text describing a tree-lined street and "HUGE" livingroom windows. The place even had a washer/dryer, which, in any other city in the country would definitely not be a major selling point, but let me tell you, in Manhattan you're lucky if you have a common washer/dryer in your entire building. Wanting one in your own apartment is a dream.
Up until about 3 p.m. I was pretty sure we were getting this Harlem place, and actually very excited about it without even having seen it. I very much trusted Tyler's judgement though and if he loved it, I was sure I would, too.
That's when I got the call.
I was at work, but I answered my cell anyway. It's not everyday you're remote-apartment-hunting and I felt that if Tyler chose to call rather than text, it must be important. I was right.
"I found this great place!" he told me.
"Yeah? East or West?" up to this point those were the only places we'd been looking...
"Chinatown."
Pause.
"You're joking."
He wasn't. I promised him I'd take a look at the place even though I was sure I would hate it. (I kept that last part to myself...)
We went out that night in both neighborhoods to get a feel for how safe I'd be walking home late at night. Turns out a coworker of mine lives in Chinatown; we met him for drinks in the area and he told us about how his kid goes to daycare in Chinatown and now speaks English and Mandarin and a little Hebrew (apparently it's a Chinatown daycare owned and managed by Jewish people. Oh, New York....)
Walking around in Chinatown elevenish at night with Tyler, I felt completely fine. Okay, so maybe I had to pee badly and nothing was open so Tyler and I pretended like we were staying at the Best Western until it turned out there were no Joneses registered for that night (really? no Joneses??) and then we had to leave (but not before I got to use their restroom!) but, the area felt very safe and was surprisingly busy considering most stores there close fairly early and the only places open were a smattering of bars. I even had Tyler walk ahead of me ten paces so I could feel what it would be like to be all alone on the street...and it was really ok.
Then we took the 6 train to the upper-upper East....Harlem.
I do not care what the New York Times says about it; Harlem past midnight was no place to be. Tyler offered to walk his ten paces ahead of me to simulate this whole being alone thing. I told him he'd better not.
It felt less safe for a number of reasons: The streets seemed absolutely deserted except for your standard homeless nappers and beggars; there were no cops making standard patrols as in Chinatown, probably because Harlem isn't your biggest tourist hot spot and NYC throws its money where the money is; finally, about a street down from our would-be washer-dryer-equipped apartment, there was what can only be described as a block party going down, only this block party was unlike any you've ever seen. One a.m. on a Friday, it included a number of baby strollers manned (and wommanned) by young-looking parents using their free hands to hold glass beer bottles or lit cigarettes, or both. I wanted to stop and tell these people "Go home. Put your kids to bed. You are a mom/dad--Seriously...give me a break!"
And because after passing these people enough nights I was sure that at one point I would speak my mind and have to deal with the consequences of such actions, it was probably for the best that Tyler and I turned around at that point and decided we couldn't take the Harlem apartment.
I was also pretty convinced that despite my positive experience in Chinatown by night, we were still not getting that place, either. In fact, I was pretty sure we would be scrapping the whole crappy experience and starting from scratch the next day in search of more mythical laundryrooms, but then something surprising happened: I really liked the C-town place.
Ok, granted, it's small--only two bedrooms, no living room (same as in my old place, the converted one-bedroom to three-bedroom...This place was probably actually a studio at one point and they threw up some pressurized walls and called it a two-bedroom. Again, Oh, New York...)
But, it has hardwood floors and granite tiling and countertops in the kitchen. And there's rooftop access, which is awesome. Tyler and I are on the lookout for folding chairs; we already rescued a folding table propped beside a Chinatown garbage can and got it "foh fwee!" as we've started saying. Now we're looking for chairs and I'm envisioning many a rooftop wine-night in our futures.
And we each have our own window A/C unit in our rooms, which I know doesn't sound great by regular living standards but... you guys have to believe me, it's good. I know a couple who moved into an apartment in Manhattan with no A/C units and they're having to buy and install them themselves. Ridiculous.
Anyway, this post is getting long, but I just wanted to update and soon I'll probably post again to tell the epic tale of my Dad's trip to NYC and how I roped him into helping me move into this fifth-floor-walk-up using only our own brute human strength and the kindness of one brave Taxi driver.
And then another about my first trip to my new grocery store, the Hong Kong Supermarket, and my newfound love for garlic-flavored peanuts.
Post again soon. Please message or leave comments. Miss everyone from home and would love to hear from you!
<3 Leigh
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